Plot Hooks, Lines and Stinkers
by Darren Jaguar
Summary: A racing imagination is the source of many plothooks. Not all of them have enough inspiration to become fully-fledged stories. But here they remain, nonetheless.
1. Riddle Wrapped in an Enigma

**HOOK ONE: RIDDLE WRAPPED IN AN ENIGMA, PROLOGUE**

 _Dear Diary,_

 _Today I dealt with a most curious gentleman. He seemed very interested in who I was, and offered me a job working as his underling. I naturally enquired as to the content of the work, and the salary, and he apologetically told me he couldn't discuss that unless I accepted. Needless to say, this secrecy annoyed me highly; curious as I am, I attempted to glean whatever morsels of information I could through subterfuge. He plays his cards very closely to his chest, and I am ashamed to admit I made no headway.  
If there's one titbit of knowledge I managed to gather from him, it's that __he_ _came to seek_ _me_ _out, and as such has a means of keeping tabs on me. He also clearly requires my considerable ability. I can therefore rest assured that he will return to attempt to convince me once again._

" _2nd of February, 1940",_ _The Diary of Thomas Marvolo Riddle_

 _BAD WRONG  
if i survive remind myself never to do this agin  
shit shit shi  
I DONT WANT TO DIE_

" _21st of December, 1941",_ _The Diary of Thomas Marvolo Riddle_

 **TMRTMRTMRTMRTMRTMRTMRTMRTMRTMR**

And the world burns, as it does when some idiots decide to pour paraffin all over it and toss in a match. Blood politics seemed fine to start with, blaming the Muggleborns for the problems of Wizards. Blood politics transmute into blood feuds and rapidly degenerate into genocide. And no-one bats an eye. That was the world's great mistake. The devil had convinced the world he didn't exist, but neither the devil's mind tricks nor the weakness of Good led to the fall. It was the indifference of the bystanders.

To paraphrase what a great man once said, "as the true opposite of happiness is not sadness but boredom, the opposite of love is most likely not hatred, but indifference". "It was Somebody Else's Problem", another great man explained. And a third great man said "Wibble wibble wibble." One supposes that greatness is a matter of opinion. But the point of what I'm trying to say is that the inaction of those who do not think themselves concerned is the principal motor for the destruction of the world. This doesn't mean that Evil is not to blame for acts of Evil. Boys will be boys, Evil will be Evil, and Snorkacks will be Crumple-Horned.

There's another matter of opinion. Boys can be girls if they want. Or they can decide to be something else. That's the joy of free will. Evil isn't necessarily Evil; such Manichean thinking is so unbecoming of the twentieth century, and though some would try to tell you that the line between good and bad is blurry, it is actually inexistent. And there are more than fifteen as yet unknown varieties of Snorkack, none of which are Crumple-Horned, much to Oddment Lovegood's chagrin. But I continue to digress.

The following tale is not a tale of heroics. This is a tale of a young man trying to make his way despite overwhelming pressure. There will most likely not be a happy ending. But it won't be a sad ending. And it sure as hell won't be a boring ending. You may love it, you may hate it, but here's hoping you won't remain indifferent.

 **TMRTMRTMRTMRTMRTMRTMRTMRTMRTMR**

 **AN:** A tale of darkly woven political schemes in a wartime Britain.


	2. The Associates

**HOOK TWO: THE ASSOCIATES, JOB ONE**

"Angel Investigations, we... hope you're helpless?"  
 _Allen Francis Doyle_

 **HPDMABHPDMABHPDMABHPDMAB**

 _Ring, ring. Ring, ring._

The phone rang. In a normal office, this would be considered of little interest. But for Amy Blott, secretary for the so-named Associates, it came across as quite a surprise. She glanced up from the parchments and papers on her desk, and frowned at the mechanical contraption she had only ever used three, four times since she was employed. She turned her frown, now steadily approaching a glare, at the leftmost of the three offices in the building, cursing the occupant for installing the telephone.

 _Ring, ring. Ring, ring._

She waved her wand in a circular motion, before pointing at a ballpoint pen on her desk, which rose up and hovered over a blank sheet of paper on her desk, poised to write whatever she mentally required of it. A complicated spell to use, but hey, let it never be said that Amethyst hadn't deserved the Outstanding she'd received for her NEWT in Charms.

 _Ring, ring. Ring, ri-_

"The Associates, Blott speaking, how can I help you?"

The voice on the other end of the line was tense, and unsteady, with a northern accent. "You deal with w- w- w- weird stuff?"

"Yes, we specialise in what some people might call 'strange occurrences'. How can we assist you, sir?"

"Uh... how to put this... I got your number from the Yellow Pages, and, uh, there's a... thing..."

"Sir?" Amy asked, "A _thing_?"

"Yeah, a thing."

"... I'm sorry sir, but that's not exactly helpful. Where are you?"

"T- Tideswell, near Buxton."

"I have a couple of operatives in the area," the secretary lied, "They should be able to make it there in a couple of hours, where can they find you?"

"The Star Inn, one of the four pubs in the village. Get them to ask after George, and hurry."

"They'll be there in a jiffy, sir."

"Th- thank you," George unceremoniously hung up.

Amy glanced at the page the pen had been hovering over. It read:

 _INVESTIGATION_

 _LOCATION: Tideswell, Buxton, UK_

 _CASE: "thing"_

 _MAGICAL_ _/MUGGLE_

 _RDV: The Star Inn, "George"_

She got up and, stretching her legs, grabbed the page and opened the door to the left-hand office.

"Hey, guys, you got something."

Two young men in casual clothing, one with his feet up on his desk, turned to look at Amy.

"Awesome! Where're we going?"

"Tideswell, some little village somewhere near Buxton, apparently."

The one with his feet on the desk swiftly swivelled his deskchair around to face the huge map of the British Isles they had fixed to the wall, and pinpointed the area. "Peak District, it would seem. Suit up, Draco," Harry grinned, "Looks like we've got a Muggle job."

 **HPDMABHPDMABHPDMABHPDMAB**

 **AN:** I suppose this is meant as a different take on the Harry Potter universe, with Angel-style plots and classiness, and Supernatural-style brotherly antics. And Drarry is always a hilarious combination.


	3. Bylina

**HOOK THREE: BYLINA**

Быть другим - это значит быть всегда одному  
 _To be different is to be forever alone_

 _Svoboda_ _, Leningrad_

 **HPDMABHPDMABHPDMABHPDMAB**

 _ **Kiev, circa 1260**_

The tavern was bleak and dull, the fire in the hearth petering out, and the occupants all wore a similar dismal look. A look which vanished almost instantly as through the doorway stepped Maxim, bent over his cane and looking as much the dishevelled old man as he had the last time he came.

He hobbled his way to his usual spot, at a table near the fire that by general consensus was known as his. He sat, and a tankard seemed to materialise instantly in front of him, by the magical art of good barmanship. The patrons all gathered round, pulling up chairs and benches, some sitting on the floor, all to listen to the story he was to tell.

" _Priviet_ to you all," the old man began, "Please gather round and listen to a tale."

Leaving a pause for everyone to sit comfortably, he coughed, and piped up with a charismatic voice uncharacteristic for his age.

"For many a day and many a night I have regaled you all with stories of heroics and great evils, and the vanquishing of the latter by the former. I have spoken of the travels of Sadko, narrated the exploits of Svyatogor, described the epics of Alyosha Popovich, and exposed the thrilling heroics of the great Ilya Muromets. However, always have I refrained from telling of the legend of Ilya and Koschei. Today is the day when I shall change my mind, and finally tell you of this legend. Koschei the Deathless was an immortal, having hidden his death within a needle, which he hid inside an egg, that was planted within a duck, inside a hare, kept in an indestructible chest under a great oak tree on the lost isle of Rügen. None of this was a match for the great hero Ilya, however..."

As Maxim continued his story, a figure at the back stood up and turned to leave the tavern. A man nearby could have sworn the figure had muttered "it wasn't that easy", but concluded he must have been imagining it.

Ilya Muromets made his way down the street, hood up and in a long cloak, clutching a snapped needle in a pouch at his belt, regrets for those unsaved overwhelming his confident public persona.

 **HPDMABHPDMABHPDMABHPDMAB**

 **AN:** Don't think this one needs comment. Wizardry in 1000s Rus'? Why on Earth not? :D


End file.
